


Bird of Paradise

by Sleepy_Writer



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepy_Writer/pseuds/Sleepy_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened down on Earth as War destroyed the Destroyer? What was the fate of Azrael, the Archangel who had helped doom humanity?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

He could see the fight raging, spectral blades of light shooting out at almost even intervals. He had briefly seen Abaddon, in the form of a massive black and red dragon, flying up high only to fall down again.

“Oh… Abaddon…” The archangel whispered, clasping his hands as he looked up still. He would wait here, for the Horseman or Uriel, whoever got to him first. “I warned you of this foolishness.” But he had not done it enough, had he?

He more felt than heard the presence behind him. Half-turning, his eyes briefly widened at the sight in front of him. “Samael.”

The demon moved closer still, not at all fearful of the other’s magical abilities. “A sad little bird, aren’t you?”

“Spare me your mockery, demon.” Golden light gathered around his hands. That he would accept judgment, would not mean that he would let a demon kill him ere it was passed.

“Come now, Azrael.” The massive red being chuckled. “Starting the Endwar early? I did not think you’d have it in you.”

The reminder might as well have come by the end of a Maker’s hammer. Azrael flinched, magic fleeting away at his broken concentration.

It was all the opportunity the demon needed, hand closing around the scholar in a crushing grip. Humans and most of the lesser demons and angels would have been crushed, but Azrael did not. He screamed in pain, but none were around to hear him as he felt his bones creak in his body.

Perhaps he had underestimated the angel’s abilities, or overestimated the destitution the blue-clad male felt, but Samael cried out in pain himself shortly thereafter. The archangel had managed to shoot him point-blank in his face with pure energy.

Still half-blinded, he smashed the angel into the stone ground, grinning at the outcry of pain and the sound of breaking bones. Several lose feathers caressed his red skin, swirling down to the ground. Regaining his sight, he saw that for at least a short while Heaven’s child would be out, knocked unconscious from the impact.

Regarding the black blood that stained his fingertips as he traced them over where he had been hit, he was interrupted from finishing by the sound of meteors passing overhead. Somehow knowing that those were not the normal ones that had devastated earth since the premature Endwar, he looked up.

His eyes widened at the three balls of light aiming for the Destroyers ‘fortress’ up above. Green, Death, Orange, Strife, Purple, Fury… The Horsemen had been summoned, the Seventh Seal broken.

“I guess that is my cue to leave.” He’d rather not have to deal with all four of them.

Already half-gone, he changed his mind and instead of leaving the angel, pulled him down to Hell along with him.


	2. Chapter 1

“I feared something like this when hearing of your… ‘misdeed’.” Death muttered darkly, arms crossed as he looked down onto what his brother had called the Ashlands. “But the Council themselves being behind this?”  
“Seems not only demons want to get rid of War.” Strife twirled the pistol he had gotten back from Death around his finger. The angels had returned to Heaven or where-ever, and what demons had not died during the fighting between the Destroyer and said angels had fled when War had arrived.   
“Not the moment to joke.” Death coolly warned his helmeted brother.   
“What will we do now?” Fury demanded, combing her fingers through the mane of her Phantom horse.  
“We’ll have a talk with the Council.” Death turned to his siblings, eyes behind his mask narrowed by what well could have been a smirk.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
He hissed lightly in pain when his wing brushed against the open wounds on his chest. He had wrapped the feathery appendage around his body to cover himself: Samael had not taken any chances and had stripped the Archangel of both his clothes and powers.  
Azrael carefully touched one of the runes carved into his chest. They were not the smooth and angular runes of Angels, as found on his wings, but rough and sharp. Demon-runes… Someone knew their magics, at least.  
Outside the cage he was in – which had probably not been made with him in mind, since his wings could not stretch even half-way before hitting the energies between the bars – the red sky of Hell stretched as far as he could see. Below him, Samael’s fortress of Black Stone was being rebuilt by legions of minor demons. His cage was hanging between the two arched spires near the middle of the building.  
So this was the price the Creator had him pay for his transgression…  
“You are not bored yet, I hope?” Samael materialized in a torrent of fire against one of the spires, leaning back against the dark stone as he studied the angel.  
“If you are trying to scare me, you ought to try harder.” Azreal rose to his feet, keeping one of his wings around his body. “I do not fear you, demon.”  
“Yet.” Samael grinned as he leaned his chin on his hand. “Yet, Azrael.”  
The Archangel said nothing in return, watching as the demon simply jumped down to oversee the work on the fortress. The cage briefly swung at the impact of the red body down on the ground.  
Azrael coughed lightly at the putrid air of Hell, feeling stifled in the stagnant heat. Almost unwillingly, he wondered if Hell had ever known the simple phenomenon of wind.   
Unable to keep track of time in Hell’s unchanging skies, the angel could not tell how long it had been until movement rattled the cage. The chains holding it up lengthened, lowering it to the ground.  
He hissed in pain when in an attempt to keep his balance, he smacked his wing against the energy, sizzling the pure white feathers.  
“I do apologize for the long wait.” Samael greeted him when he came to eye-height. Down below on the ground were other demons, only stopped from jeering at him because of the massive demon on the throne.  
“You could have left me a book.” Azrael countered dryly, wobbling a bit as the cage touched down. The metal seemed to incinerate at once the moment it touched the ground, leaving him standing in a horde of demons with nothing that could offer protection.  
His mouth tightened in disdain as they closed in. Ripped apart by lesser demons… Certainly not a fate he’d have chosen himself. He smirked lightly as they scattered when he opened his wings, though it was no more than a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Finish this then, Samael.”  
“And send you to the source of your power, Watcher of the Well?” The demon smiled faintly. “I think not. You will stay here, until I tire of you… which might well be a long time.”  
Before he could react, something smashed into his back with great power, propelling the surprised angel forward onto the jagged stone of the courtyard.   
“Careful with his wings, I want them whole.” Samael warned the attacker. “Bend a single feather and you will suffer worse agony than he.”  
Azrael half-turned from where he had fallen to the ground, eyes briefly widening as the fist of a Trauma bore down upon him. The massive tusks attached drove themselves into the ground beside his head, pinning him under the demon’s hand. He gasped in pain as the pressure on his half-healed ribs increased, feeling new blood ooze from his open wounds.  
Another demon appeared, wrenching his head back.   
The Archangel of Death howled in pain when searing iron burned into his skin, the smell of burning flesh rising around him. His trashing did nothing to free him, merely amusing the demons watching. Only the movement of his wings, slapping against the stone made them move to stay out of reach of the appendages. They now openly dared jeer and cheer at the sight of one of Heaven’s greatest marked with the seal of Samael.  
The only one who seemed not entertained at the sight before him was Samael himself, eyes narrowing in displeasure as Azrael’s wings returned to resting on the floor, trembling. They were focused on the few feathers that had become dislodged at the angel had tried to free himself. One really had to do everything himself down here…  
“The wings were to be unharmed.” The red demon tapped his fingers on his knee in irritation. “I do not call that unharmed.” He pointed at the few loose feathers, before incinerating the Trauma. He did not want to bother with torturing that damn thing today. Ash rained down, covering the shivering angel.  
Carefully Azrael reached for the left side of his face, where a burned mark now covered the angelic rune he had borne there for millennia.  
Samael sighed in boredom. “Tell me the damn smiths are more competent than that moron.” He demanded of a Phantom Guard beside him as he descended from his throne to drag the angel up by the arm. He sneered at the glare the angel threw him, ignoring it in favor of the Guard.  
“They were just adding the last touches as I came here, my lord.” The Guard groveled on the ground, hoping that that was quick enough for the demon-lord.  
“Tell them I want it within the hour.” Samael snarled at him, dragging the angel after him to the doors leading into the fortress. “As for the rest of you, get going.”  
Azrael could not walk, his arm being held too high for him to find secure footing and he could not fly either on account of a massive demon-arm blocking his right wing. So he was being dragged along rather unceremoniously, blood trailing down his olive skin as his long primary feathers stirred up the dust on the ground behind him.  
The doors slammed shut as they passed under the high gate.


	3. Chapter 2

“Azrael is gone.” The angel had to repeat himself to the female in front of him. “He disappeared shortly after the premature Endwar started.”  
Uriel could not hide her shock at the news. What had happened in Heaven while they were trapped on Earth? Or worse, had Abaddon’s treachery reached further than himself: had the Hellguard-commander managed to involve Azrael in his scheme? “How…? Why…?”  
“A demon-lord pierced our defenses.” The other was forced to admit. “He managed to overcome the Archangel and take him.” He had been one of those that had been drawn to the… commotion at the Argent Spire. One of those that had seen the scholar being crushed in a red fist that had gone up in fire. “We believe he was killed: soon after, the Well of Souls turned… erratic, but we could do naught to stop it.”  
So he too was gone… How much more loss did the White City need to suffer ere all was done? She sighed softly, nodding to indicate she understood. Abaddon had known all the defenses and weak-points of the city… and he had told them all to the demons, apparently.  
She never would have expected him to do that. Then again, she never expected him to actually start the Endwar early, so there was that.  
Both turned to face the opening door, bowing deeply when a female with four perfectly golden wings entered. She had, unlike most angels, long and elaborately braided golden hair, reaching nearly to the ground when she touched down upon it. From the bridge of her nose a tattoo of white wings spread outwards over her golden eyes so that the longest primary feathers reached her temples. “Lady Gabriel.”   
“Uriel.” One of the two leaders of all of Heaven waved the other angel away. “I have need of your presence at the Assembly, if you have sufficiently rested.”  
“I have, my Lord.” She briefly looked up at her, before bowing again. Not that she would have said otherwise, were it not the case.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
He barely managed to keep his balance when the demon thrust him forward. Azrael watched as Samael walked past him to sit upon another, more elaborate throne at the end of the room.   
“Come.” If not for the runes draining the other’s magics, Samael would never have succeeded with his own enchantments this easily. A short sentence, a gentle beckoning with his finger and the angel’s body no longer obeyed its’ owner.   
What resistance Azrael could offer against the demon’s powers was short-lived and weak, his wings spreading of their own accord. Against his will, he flew through the room, stopping to hover just a little less than an arm’s-length in front of Samael. With the white appendages keeping him aloft, nothing hid his naked body from the other’s gaze. He could only tremble impotently as those orange-glowing eyes trailed over his body.  
“You have quite the muscle for a scholar.” Samael stated, a single gesture sending his prisoner down to the ground. He tilted his head, an unspoken staring-match starting between them.  
A hesitant knock sounded on the entrance door. Another gesture, and Azrael flew up, grunting with his exertion to resist the other’s magics. It mattered little and he soon found himself crouching on the armrest of the throne, red energies surrounding his body and keeping him immobile as his wings folded neatly against his back.  
“Who is it?” Samael demanded in a bored tone, briefly gracing the angel at his arm with a grin before ignoring him in favor of the door.  
A demon shuffled in, bearing a neat stack of boxes. He carefully put them down, throwing himself haphazardly on the ground beside them. “I brought you your order, oh great Lord of Red Court.” It squeaked.  
“I sincerely hope your hurry has not affected your work.” Said Lord of the Red Court muttered darkly, beckoning it forward.  
Azrael could not see any of this, not even from the corner of his eye, Samael’s magics keeping his head firmly focused on the massive demon. He saw him lean forward, studying whatever it was the other demon had brought in. No matter how hard he strained, he could not even see the demon, his own hair blocking his vision of the area in front of Samael’s throne.  
Pleased with the work, Samael gave the smith his reward and send him away. “Are you curious?”  
Even had he been able to move his lips and tongue, Azrael would not have deigned to give him an answer, as the demon knew well.  
This time he did not even bother with gesturing, forcing the angel down to the ground with a mere thought. Said angel grunted lightly when the grip on his limbs lessened, causing him to fall forward onto his knees at the sudden lack of support.  
The boxes were closed again, placed neatly side by side in front of him. There were four of them, each bigger than the next.  
“Open them.” The demon ordered sharply, pointing idly at one of them.  
“And what if I refuse?” Azrael countered, face dark with his anger. He had pulled up his legs to hide his nakedness now that he could, arms wrapped around his hurting chest.  
“Then I will make you… and more besides.” The tall male opposite him calmly stated, red energies building around his hand once more. “I have only so much patience, after all.”  
Deciding he’d rather not find out about what the demon meant with ‘more besides’ over four boxes, Azrael reached for the nearest one, lifting the lid up. Opening the other three, he steadfastly refused to look into them, eyes fixated on some point on Samael’s face. Much to Samael’s amusement, of course.  
“Put them on.” A mouth-corner quirked upward, revealing sharp teeth. “All of them.”  
Unwillingly, the mystic looked down now, eyes widening at the sight of gold in front of him. The biggest box held a half-skirt of long white feathers, though he was not certain how the gold spikes were supposed to attach to him and he dared not think where the feathers had come from. In the second was a neatly folded loincloth with a thin golden belt, made from what seemed to him part of his robes, the deep blue a stark contrast to the overwhelming red of the surroundings. Wrapped in fabric to prevent them from scratching, the contents of the third box seemed to be thick bracelets, six in total. With a shock, he realized that they must have melted his golden arch to make these: inlaid in all six with the same blue-grey material of the arch were the marks of Samael. The last box was the worst for the Archangel though: a thick, golden collar with a long chain among other small things sparkled in the gloom of Hell.  
Made from the symbol of his power, Azrael was faced with the symbols of his impending shame and suffering. He trembled, unable to move in sheer horror.  
Samael chuckled, once more forcing his prisoner to move against his will. He watched with pleasure as slender hands reached for the collar first. This time, he allowed the angel the freedom of moving his face. He was well-rewarded for that as he saw the expression of the Gatekeeper when his own hands closed the collar around his neck.


	4. Chapter 3

It was many hours later that the Council of the White City had finished hearing all Uriel had to report. In all that time, she had not moved from her spot, kneeling in front of the assembly of Heaven’s highest.  
She had cringed upon seeing how many seats were empty: not only Abaddon and Azrael had been lost during this last century. Lucien, Leader of the Scriptorium, had also perished, killed by Death when something called the ‘Corruption’ had taken hold of him. Among others… Jamaerah had taken his place, until a true replacement could be assigned. Azrael had meanwhile been replaced with one of the scribes of the Argent Spire. They held no hope for the Archangel’s survival.  
“Truly we are in dire straits.” Michael darkly stated, his own four golden wings twitching behind him. “Hell mobilizes, our Hellguard was decimated over the treachery of Abaddon and many of our greatest powers lost.”  
“Not to mention…” A different angel spoke up. “Rumor is spreading like wildfire that with the Seventh Seal broken, the Horsemen have turned against the Charred Council. Creation will fall to Chaos.”  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
In the end, Azrael was outfitted with all that the lesser demon had brought to Samael. The chain now linking his neck to the demon’s throne was barely twice his wing-span… not that long, circumstances considered.  
“Do you not enjoy your new clothes?” Samael insisted, pulling lightly at the chain. Forced to do a step forward, Azrael gasped in fresh pain when that meant moving his legs. He had been right about not wishing to know where the spikes of the feathers were supposed to attach: they had buried themselves into his flesh, hooking behind his pelvic bones. Thin rivulets of blood ran from his fresh wounds, for some reason missing his new loincloth and the white feathers trailing after him like a luxurious tail.  
“They certainly suit you.” Samael pulled again, grinning lightly when the angel had to take to the air. The long feathers danced around him, blue fabric wafting in the breeze of his flapping wings. Golden bands encased his lower and upper arms as well as his lower legs. Golden rings now graced his ears, eyes and chest, a mockery of his once high position. Reduced to mere eye-candy…  
“As does the scar on your eye you.” Azrael snarled, unable to resist as the demon reeled him in like a fisherman would a fish. The holy powers of Heaven had left its’ mark on the demon’s face: it would never heal.  
“Yes, I suppose it does.” Samael shrunk, still keeping a firm grip on the chain. Soon he stood no taller than the Archangel, though he was still far more imposing. Barely an arms-length of chain remained between them. “The one on your face looks better though.” Using his free hand, he gripped the left side of the Gatekeepers face, fingers digging into the burn-marks in the olive skin.  
Azrael failed to keep the pain from his face, arms shooting up in a futile attempt to remove the hand.   
The demon smiled now, reveling in his struggles. “Ah… Such beauty you reveal in your suffering, Watcher of the Well. My own little Bird of Paradise, are you not?” The hand let go, falling down to the chain just at the collar before Azrael could put distance between them. “I suggest answering me. You’d not like me angry.”  
“I told you I do not fear you.” Azrael reminded him, white wings stirring the air around them. He knew that defiance would cost him, but he would not submit to a demon just like that.  
“And I told you ‘yet’.” Samael countered, face now so close to the angel’s that a breath could barely pass between them. “I have my ways, as you ought to realize.”  
“I have some pride left, demon. I will not bow to you.” The scholar countered, eyes narrowed in anger.  
“Wrong answer.” The lord told him, grin baring his fangs. “Let me show you the error of your ways…” His grin widened when he saw the other had trouble to maintain his poker-face. “Perhaps… you’ll even enjoy it.”  
“You’d have to kill me for that.” Azrael gritted his teeth when Samael’s hands fell from the chain to his arms, crushing the – in comparison – slender appendages in his grip. “Do your worst, Demon, I will endure it.”  
“Because you see it as your punishment.” Samael pulled him even closer, the angel’s chest now against his own. “Which is why you will enjoy it: you’ll want ever more… you’ll crave the pain soon enough, my little bird…”


	5. Chapter 4

He regarded the form in front of him: frozen in stone was the angel. Wings flared as the male had uselessly tried to flee. Flesh had turned to flawless marble, each strand of silken hair still cascading down the surprisingly well-toned muscles.  
It had to be torture, trapped unmoving without being able to see, hear, feel… Only one’s heartbeat as company. He rested his hand against the cool stone, tracing the wounds that were carved into it. Oblivion made real, at least for a time.  
Samael smiled lightly, regarding the metal decorations. Unlike the hair, wings and flesh of Azrael they had not been affected, now contrasting the cold stone with their warm golden glow.  
He’d leave the other like this for a while, until he could spend a bit more time on breaking the Archangel.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
Cleaning up the angelic outpost was a thankless task. Uriel looked down upon Lostlight, regarding the devestation. The Archon had done foul work: even now she could still taste the corruption that had festered here.   
She frowned lightly as she waited for the patrols to return. With the treaty broken by Abaddon, who knew what could appear at their doorstep any moment now?  
The newly – officially – appointed General of the Hellguard briefly thanked the Creator that with the recent happenings on Earth Hell also suffered from a massive loss of personnel, as one could say, so that neither side could truly launch an attack on the other just yet. It was just the question which one would have recovered their losses first…  
Rumor had it that the Horsemen had disappeared, for the moment at least. No word came from the Charred Council for some reason. They probably deemed the losses for both sides sufficient punishment for now.  
“General.” She turned to the voice, blinking a few times at the sight of the fat angel on a throne approaching her.  
“Jamaerah.” She nodded briefly at the scholar, hiding her distaste at his form as well she could.   
He had slimmed down back to his normal proportions after the Corruption had been purged from him, but he was still far from what the militaristic nature of the angels deemed ‘handsome’ or even ‘normal’. “How goes it inside the Ivory Citadel?”  
“As well as can be expected.” He answered, pulling his toga-like dress back into the place. “It is not why I came here though. Can we speak in private for a few minutes?”   
“I assume so.” She looked around. “What is the problem?”  
“You know of… my gift?” The scrivener turned, heading for the Crystal Spire. The Pool of Vision had been blocked, allowing none access save in emergencies.  
“Second sight.” She nodded, following the obese angel to the top of the building. “What did you see?”  
“A faint image.” He got off the throne, standing surprisingly firmly on the tilting roof. “More like a vague glimpse.”  
“Of what?” She touched down beside him, regarding him intently. “What did you see?”  
“Blood in the White City.” There was dread in his voice. “Angelic blood. A hand, resting in an ever-growing pool of crimson. Feathers, absorbing the accursed fluid until they are as red as War’s hood.”   
He shuddered lightly, turning to the faraway horizon. The golden light of the Heavenly outpost reflected in his eyes.   
“An imminent attack?” But almost immediately she discarded the thought. Even if it came as a complete surprise, there would be some counter-attack.  
“No.” He confirmed her suspicion. “No attack, not as such at least. It are the wings I saw that worry me and had me seek you out.”  
“Why would wings make you seek me out?” Uriel wondered, gesturing out. “Heaven is filled with them.”  
“They were non-glowing.” Jamaerah turned to her, gesturing to his own stubs. “The wings of Archangels and higher.” His eyes closed as he pulled the vision from the depths of his mind. Whispering a few words, an image formed over his outstretched hand, rippling like a pool of water.  
Only hesitantly she leaned forward, regarding the image with distaste. The wings had once been white, but now were drenched in blood, though the scribe had either exaggerated the amount of blood, or was showing her a slightly different image than he himself had seen.  
“What is the problem with them?” She looked at the male in front of her.  
“Look closely to their end, General.” He stated, white eyes fixed on her face. “Are they not marked such as no other has ever been in the history of Heaven?”  
Again she turned her attention to the image, stepping a bit closer to his outstretched hand to peer more closely at the wings. White and long, their tips dragged through the blood on the marble stone beneath them.  
“Azrael.” She breathed, having seen the faint blue discoloration underneath the red. The runes were no longer glowing with mystical energies, but they were there. “These are Azrael’s wings.”  
“No other.” He told her, the image fading. “I fear that he might still be alive… for the moment at least.”  
Uriel closed her eyes briefly, dreading the very thought. It had been over a century since the Archangel had disappeared. If he had been in the hold of demons ever since, who knew what kind of state would he be in?  
“I will have to inform the Council of this.” She whispered, torn between the need to inform her superiors and the need to keep following her orders.   
“I can do that, but I deemed it wiser to inform you ere I left.” Jamaerah hoisted himself back on his throne. “The scribe-work has to wait until the mason-work is done after all.”  
She briefly smiled in gratitude. “I will arrange for an escort.”  
“Nathaniel will suffice.” He assured her, return the smile weakly. “Heaven keep you safe.”  
“Heaven keep you safe.”


	6. Chapter 5

“We cannot afford to chase after a mirage.” This was the verdict of the Council that governed Heaven. “There is no certainty that Azrael is still alive, nor what state his mind is in. If he even has survived this long in the demon’s grasp, his mind might well be beyond repair. We cannot risk soldiers for an empty husk with war with Hell looming just around the corner and no clues whatsoever. Not even if that husk was once our greatest scholar and mystic.”  
Jamaerah bowed lightly, keeping his face neutral at the verdict. He left the White City in a dark mood shortly thereafter. The entire way back to Lostlight he didn’t say a single word.  
The next day, a small force of Demons tested the defenses of one of the other outposts.   
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
Even the feel of rough and hot stone was a welcome sensation to the angel at this point. For over a day he had been left in the oblivion that was petrification and by the time he was released, only his remnant of stubborn refusal to show weakness to the demon kept him from actually weeping at being able to feel again.  
He trembled on the floor, unable to get up from his prone position.  
“I have news.” Samael lounged on his throne, studying the male on the floor in front of him. “I think you will be very interested in it.”  
“I do not need your news.” Finally his arms cooperated, allowing him to get back into a kneeling position.  
“Truly?” The demon stepped down, reaching for the golden chain trailing over the stone floor. “I thought you would like to know that War died.”  
“What…?” The ivory eyes of the angel fixed on his, widening in horror. “No.”  
“Yes.” The golden chain grew taut as the red arm pulled on it. “The Armageddon Blade ran him right through. I don’t think even he could shrug that off.”  
“You lie.” Azrael stated, trying to resist the pulling on the collar around his neck. “He did not.”  
“Did too.” Samael grinned widely, hand by now only an arm’s length from the collar. “Bled to death right next to the Destroyer… or should I call him Abaddon, what do you prefer?”  
The other flinched, gasping when the demon now lifted the chain. For a few fleeting moments he dangled at the other end, then his wings spread, beating just enough to keep him from suffocation.   
“At any rate, War died.” The demon-lord tilted his head, regarding the flying form. “So much for your redemption, is it not? I heard Death also died – irony of ironies – so I suppose the Charred Council will not rule much longer. How long until war between Heaven and Hell rages full-force again? I’ll see if I can get you Michael or Gabriel as companion once the white towers burn.”  
It was the first reaction he got that did not involve resisting as much as possible. He laughed when Azrael tried to attack him, furious at the mere suggestion. With ease, he grabbed his angel, careful not to harm the wings.  
Bones creak under the pressure of his grip on the angel, fury soon replaced with pain. Something snapped under his fingers and the Archangel cried out in pain. Those elegant wings beat against the hand holding their owner in a desperate attempt to break the crushing hold.  
“Here is the only place for you, Azrael.” He stopped trying to squish the angel, still holding him tightly though. “The White City will soon enough fall… and even if it does not, where would the Starter of the Apocalypse go? All those that would have helped you are dead or turned from you.”  
“Then… I will die as well…” Just barely he managed the push the words between his teeth, struggling for every breath. “I will… not bow to Hell…”  
“I don’t expect you to bow, Archangel.” The demon grinned, closing his free hand around the dangling foot. “I expect you to cower.” He sharply twisted the appendage, earning himself another cry of pain. “I do know some healing-magics, if you remember. I can make you suffer for eternity if I so desire.”  
Letting go, he watched the angel through lidded eyes. A few whispered words and fire arched from his fingers, aiming for the spots where the other had suffered broken bones. Unlike the gentle healing of Angels, the methods Demons used for healing – when they bothered to do so – were invasive, essentially replacing the broken bones and wounds with new parts. By first removing them…  
Azrael trembled at the agony arching through his body. Unwilling to show his pain to the demon again, he pressed his jaws close with such force that they started to bleed. It only served to draw the magic to even more parts of his body. At least the pain in his mouth made him unable to scream…  
This time the cool stone offered relief of a different kind to him. He shuddered on it, wings wrapped around his trembling body.  
“We are not done yet.” Samael warned him, before new fire appeared. Within moments, the angel was an inferno that did not burn. Everything hurt, yet nothing was being hurt.   
No relief came from the pain, even as his body arched in increasingly complicated ways.


	7. Chapter 6

They stood on a plane of fire and brimstone, though not Hell. Three mounds had collapsed into basins of fire, the molten rock pouring out over the nearby area.  
“When the seventh seal is broken, four Horsemen shall ride forth to punish the wicked, be they Sons of Men, Lords of Heaven, or the Dregs of Hell…”  
“Or the Charred remains of a Council.” Fury finished her brother’s sentence, rubbing her wounded arm. “First our own brethren, then our own masters…”  
“As long as we do not start killing one another, I care little.” Strife toyed with his helmet. “So, Heaven or Hell next?”  
“Hell.” Death studied Dust absentmindedly, Harvester resting loosely in one hand. “Abaddon is dead, so Heaven is of no concern for now. They’ll pay regardless.”  
War nodded lightly, the Armageddon Blade clasped to his back and Chaoseater driven into the ground beside him. He had not told his siblings that Azrael had been an active participant in the premature End War, for some reason omitting the fact that the Archangel had had knowledge of the plan of Abaddon. It was impossible to deny all involvement, the power of the Archangel still infused in the Blade.   
He took it from his back to study the well-forged creation of Ulthane. He had not been silent about the Old One’s involvement, though that had been marginal at best from what he could tell.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
His own weight hurt. His wrists were begging him to get some of his weight of them, but the Archangel could not oblige. Another chain reaching down from his feet held him stretched to his very limit just above Samael’s throne.  
Scars littered his once pristine and unmarred chest, whips having bitten deep into the angelic flesh. Several of the luxurious piercings on his chest had been ripped out already, only to be immediately placed elsewhere.  
Beneath Azrael Samael went about his business, listening with rapt attention to the news that poured in from Hell and elsewhere. Lilith had fully fallen from favor, Heaven’s defenses were being tested and so on…  
Azrael did his best not to seem like he was paying close attention to the news. The silver light in one of his eyes had already dimmed, eyesight gone on his left. Between the cruel burning and the even crueler healing – though he had not felt it over the pain in his bones – had been too much for the sensitive nerves. For now it seemed like Samael had not yet noticed, but it could just about be that he was just waiting for the right moment to use it.  
He had lost track of time… How long had it been since he had been taken? Had any noticed his disappearance yet? A defeated chuckle escaped his lips. Would they even care? No doubt War would have told them what the Keeper of the Well had done… They’d deem him fled or rightfully slain.  
“Enjoying yourself?” The demon below him had heard the chuckle, chuckling himself now. A short wave with his hand and the chain that held the Archangel up let go, falling down to the ground while dragging the angel along with its’ weight.   
Magnificent and untouched wings spread, bringing their owner to a hover just at eye-height. The long white feathers of his half-skirt danced around his tanned legs, pain radiating outward from their points of attachment. Every move made the wound worse.  
“Or are you bored?” One hand wrapped around the chains of arms and legs alike, while the other pulled back the head of the angel. “Mmmh?”  
He had stopped trying to pretend he was unaffected by what the demon did – around the time where four piercings had been pulled at the same time by a particularly cruel whip-stroke – but still refused him answers.   
“Bored, I take it.” The Demon answered his own question, letting go of the silver hair. Pulling his prisoner further down, he watched the wings struggle against his hold. “It has been quite the while since I paid some attention to you, was it not?”  
Again, no answer.  
The Lord waved away the demon that had been reporting to him, rising from his seat.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
Unlike the stones upstairs, these were cold and damp. He had lost track of exactly how many stairs they had descended and corridors crossed before Samael had left him in this room.  
The chains had been attached to the ground, leaving his form stretched out on the rough stone.  
It was soon after the demon had left that footsteps sounded in the hallway. They were armored, unlike most of the demons. He never understood why they shunned armor so much.  
The door opened slowly, opening completely. The form entering was tall, clad in dark armor. Black wings filled the corridor behind him.  
“Abaddon…” Azrael breathed in horror, eyes widening when he recognized the scarred face. “No…”  
“I heard you were here and decided to visit you, old friend.” The Fallen stopped only just beside the bound Archangel. “Are you not relieved to see me well?”  
“I am not your friend.” For the first time in entirely too long Azrael hissed out the words. He had doubted Samael’s words, clung to the thought that the demon had been lying. The hope had been unwarranted, apparently…  
“So it seems.” Sinking through his knees, the former Leader of the Hellguard reached out with his armored hand, treading his fingers through the silver strands. “I can save you from this.”  
“I do not need your aid.” The bound angel tried to remove his hair from the other’s reach. “I do not want it. Begone.”  
Before he could say anything else, that same hand closed around his throat, pressing down hard.  
“Then you shan’t have it.” Leaning down, his hot breath brushed over the face of his one-time friend. “And I shall take what Samael offered me. You are so temptingly spread out for me, Azrael.”  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
There were a few statues of Azrael in the White City, mostly in the Argent Spire. There was a particularly impressive one just in the entrance hall in fact: inlaid with gold and sapphire the scribes had commissioned it to depict the Archangel perfectly. Azrael himself had enchanted the statue’s wings to display the same runes his own had.  
After the demon had taken the mystic they had faded to nearly nothing, leaving only a faint blue discoloration on the white marble. Until now…  
Blazing with light, they scorched the untouched expanse, blackening the feathers almost up to their point of attachment.   
Some of the scribes that had been around fled away and the few that staid watched strangely mesmerized as several of the feathers crumbled from the arcane energies. The rune on the statue’s left face started to bleed, red liquid dripping down to the sapphire chest.  
Thin trails ran down, until they fell to the ground. Soon a small puddle had formed, the iron tang of fresh-spilled blood in the air.


	8. Chapter 7

He moaned lightly, shifting a bit on the demon’s armrest. Blood coated a good part of his chest and legs, the red a vivid contrast to the gentle olive tone of his skin.  
The runes on his chest were new and fresh: remade as he had been brought back up. When Abaddon had taken him, the mystics energies had reacted to the agony, half-activating. Not enough to form spells of any kind, but the raw energy had been enough to cancel the illusion Samael had cast.  
In a dark corner of his mind, Azrael thanked the Creator it had not undone the shrinking.  
“Uncomfortable?” The demon purred, reaching out to stroke his folded wings. The angel flinched at the touch, but made no move to get away. “Answer me.”  
“Yes…” The Archangel whispered, flinching again at the grin.   
“I did say you would fear me.” Leaning over, Samael grinned when the angel took flight, white wings and blue loincloth dancing in the down-draft. He righted himself. “And you do, don’t you?”  
That was a query Azrael would not offer him the answer to, but both knew it already. The angel had started breaking.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
“Uriel, we cannot spare the forces!” Michael sharply stated.  
“He is out there somewhere, still with his faculties and everything.” The General of the Hellguard countered, pointing to where the main gate of the White City lay. “We cannot afford to lose him!”  
“The Horsemen have destroyed the Charred Council, Hell is gathering its’ powers against us and we do not know where he even could be.” The Head of the Assembly and Heaven itself reminded her. “The demon that first took him is dead and Creator knows which could have taken him afterwards. You will not send out a single angel to look for him.”  
Her leaving of the room was just barely respectful. Shortly afterwards Gabriel entered, regarding her husband with worry on her face.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
“It’s Uriel.” Fury stated in surprise when she recognized the form that was approaching them slowly.   
“What is she doing here?” Strife wondered, looking around him as if to check they still were on the Maker’s world and not some outpost of Heaven.  
“Let’s ask her.” Death pulled Despair to a stop, soon followed by his siblings. They waited for the angel.  
Her jaw was tight as she set down a respectful – and safe – distance. “Horsemen.” She greeted them. “Can I speak to War for a moment?”  
“What for?” The youngest Horseman spoke up, driving Ruin close to her. The angel had to be commended for only tightening the hold on her sword. “You can speak to me in front of my siblings.”  
She looked between them, finally focusing on the Rider in front of her. “It is about Azrael.” She stated after a few moments of hesitation. “I was hoping you could help me.”  
“What about Azrael?” Strife wondered with disdain. “Did he lose a book?”  
“He has been missing for over a century.” The angel ignored his jibe, keeping her eyes firmly on War. “I was hoping that perhaps you could have some knowledge of what happened to him.”  
“And the White City only cares now?” Death snarked. “I’d expect him to be a bit more valuable to them than that.”  
“With… the premature Endwar, they were unable to. After Aba… the Destroyer was defeated and travel between the worlds was possible again they deemed him lost to them.” Uriel struggled to keep her composure.  
“What changed?” Fury demanded, wondering why her little brother was not doing anything.  
“There… was an incident.” The winged female whispered. “There… there is a statue of Azrael in the Argent Spire. He himself had enchanted the statue’s wings to display the same runes his own had.  
After he had first disappeared they had faded to nearly nothing, leaving only a faint blue discoloration on the white marble. But a couple days ago, that had changed: the runes had… activated, scorching the marble, blackening the feathers almost up to their point of attachment.   
Several of them crumbled from the arcane energies. Then the rune on the statue’s left face started to bleed until it was like the statue was in a veritable puddle. The mystics told us that only a great suffering beyond conventional torture could create such a backlash…”  
“I thought he had gone back to the White City…” War whispered, voice without emotion.  
“Explain.” Death looked at him, mind steadfastly refusing to follow the line of thought to what suffering would be worse than conventional torture.  
“Azrael had been taken by Straga – the demon that also ‘killed’ Abaddon – and imprisoned so he could not stop the Well of Souls from being tampered with.” The young Horseman absentmindedly patted Ruin’s neck. “I freed him ere killing Straga and he helped me afterwards. You might remember I told you that the Tree of Knowledge showed me things?” At Uriel’s hesitant nod he continued. “He brought me there. But as I went to face Abaddon I told him to stay back, it was personal to me. After the battle, when I did not see him where I had last seen him I assumed he went back to the White City with you.”  
“He never did.” Uriel shook her head. “No angel has seen him in years.”  
“So someone took Azrael and is now keeping him prisoner?” Fury summarized. “Why does Heaven not search for him?”  
“The Endwar has come.” The angel stated darkly. “They have forbidden me from sending out people to search for him. But perhaps if I knew where he was I could convince them.”  
“Begone back to your city.” Death told her. “We will see if we can find something, because Azrael is too important in his role as Watcher of the Well to lose, but that is all.”  
Her muscles tightened, but the angel bowed and left.


	9. Chapter 8

He trembled, shivering on the rough stones. His hands were clutching the right side of his face. Blood ran between them, dripping onto the ground. A short distance away lay an ivory orb, blood marring the surface.  
Samael idly picked it up, studying it. It looked downright tiny between his two fingers. He looked at Azrael, who was moaning lightly in agony. His mouth-corner quirked up. “I’d say you have a reserve, but not really, do you?”  
The angel froze, blindly turning towards the voice of the other.  
“You did not honestly think I’d not notice you went blind on one eye?” He crushed the orb, a gelatinous mass falling down to the ground. “Now what to do with that new hole?”  
The Archangel turned away, one hand moving to help push himself upright. He flinched when Samael was suddenly in front of him, hoisting him upright by the arm whose hand had covered the face still.  
An ivory eyelid covered a hollow hole that had just a few minutes ago housed a healthy eye. Azrael trembled in his grip, remaining eye flitting back and forth frantically.  
“Perhaps I’ll replace it with a golden eyeball, but for now…” He threw the angel to the ground, watching as the luxurious wings trembled on the angel’s back. “I believe I asked you something.”  
“Bastard.” He had managed to reduce the lithe male to useless cursing. The blood on the ground – too much for a single lost eye – gave a hint as to how he had done so.  
Only the touch of his hand on the gold-encased leg was already enough to send the mystic into a panic. He trembled, panting in agitation.  
“Come now, little Bird.” The hand closed, pulling lightly. “Do you truly relish more pain so much? If that is the case, you need but ask.”  
Azrael’s lower jaw trembled, wide and unseeing eye fastened on where he heard the demon’s voice come from. Blood still ran down his face, but he would live. The innate magics of the scholar would protect him from dying of something so trivial as infection. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. And then he sang.  
A haunting melody rose up from the cowering form on the ground, dancing around the only two in the room.   
Samael took a seat to the side, folding his fingers together as he watched the mystic sing.

Morning has broken, like the first morning  
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird  
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning  
Praise for the springing fresh from the world

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven  
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass  
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden  
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning  
Born of the one light, Eden saw play  
Praise with elation, praise every morning  
Creation of the new day  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
The entire White City reverberated with the sound of a million voices, one massive angelic choir singing through the vast array of floating islands.  
Michael looked outside from his window, watching the angels that had seemingly frozen outside in whatever they were doing. Leading the impromptu choir was his own wife, Gabriel having begun just a few moments ago. By now, it would have reached even the far edges of the city, freezing all life among the white walls until the song was over.  
He turned away, his own gloriously golden wings rustling with his movement. On the table in front of him were piles and piles of paperwork. Contrary to what one might believe, the leader of Heaven itself was not a warrior first: he was a scholar foremost.  
He pushed some of the neat scrolls aside to reach the paper underneath: a list of names. The names of those lost that Heaven would have had plenty of trouble to replace if it were peacetime.  
Archons, Archangels, Generals… Had it covered all the fallen, the sheet should have had the size of the entire room.  
He looked it over, eyes fastening upon the marked names. The gravest losses. “Lucien…” Greatest of their scriveners, driving mad by visions and tainted by Corruption. Killed by the Horseman Death. “Abaddon…” Greatest of their warriors, traitor to their people and Fallen. Killed by the Horseman War. “Azrael.” Greatest of their mystics and scholars, captured by a demon. Status currently unknown, presumed Lost to the City.  
It took all his control not to rip the sheet apart. Emotions reared their ugly heads, threatening to drown the cold logic of the angel. Everything because Abaddon had grown so paranoid he started the Endwar early.  
Slamming it down before he did something that would certainly raise some eyebrows, the robe-clad male marched outside.  
The singing had stopped, the city having returned to normal.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
They stood on the small floating island where War had left Azrael.  
“So how do you suggest we do this?” Fury demanded, looking up at the tower of Abaddon. Arms crossed, her irritation was obvious. “We cannot just go marching through Hell asking for Azrael, they’d kill him before we are able to find him.”  
“Not to mention that we’re supposed to be neutral?” Strife idly toyed with one of his guns, having climbed one of the spires in a fit of momentary boredom. “We’ll be taking the side of Heaven and you just know what Hell’s gonna do then.”  
“We’ll do it subtly.” Death stated, tapping Harvester against the ground. “There are not that many demons that could overpower Azrael. We’ll visit those.”  
War’s eyes were fastened on something in the proverbial distance, staring at the far-away part of the ground. Under several layers of ash he saw a burn-mark. “I’ll take Samael.”  
“War…”  
The youngest Horseman lifted his hand. “I need to talk to him anyway. Meaning I will also have an excuse to be there.”  
“If you are not back within three days, we will raze his fortress to the ground.” Death told his younger brother, turning to the other two as War pierced the veils between the planes. “Fury, take Lilith, Strife, you go…”


	10. Chapter 9

Screams greeted War when he entered Samael’s fortress, a hoarse voice crying out in agony. Under his hood his eyes narrowed as he shoved aside the demon-lord’s guards. After what had happened on Earth, they knew better than to seriously oppose him.  
It grew relatively silent when he set foot on the last set of stairs into the central room. The screams were first replaced by whimpering moans and then silence.  
“Horseman!” Even before he had reached the doors, Samael’s voice called out in greeting. “You have rather poor timing, I am busy.”  
“I do not care about that.” War answered as he opened the doors. To his credit, he only froze briefly in the doorway at the scene in front of him: Samael was lounging on the inner throne and in front of him…  
A heap of white feathers shivered on the ground, Azrael having wrapped the lustrous appendages around his body as a measure of comfort. A short distance away the Horseman saw something that could well have been a trail of feathers, golden hooks marred with blood and blue fabric thrown across it.  
“This cuts the conversation short at least.” The Red Rider marched through the room, hand itching to take Chaoseater from his back.  
“Come to reclaim an angel?” Samael demanded, magics reaching out to return the Archangel to his grip. Azrael had no more strength to even cry out in pain. Blood coated his legs, dripping down onto the demon.  
“Your portal left a burn-mark.” War informed the demon, giving into his urge to take Chaoseater. “You are too powerful for your own good, Samael.”  
“Too powerful for you too, Horseman.” Samael looked at the shivering angel, half-unconscious in his grasp. “I once asked you about earthly pursuits… I was wrong about the target, apparently.”  
“Release the Gatekeeper, Samael.” War’s face was unmoved. “Or I will come and take him: the Well needs him.”  
“And you think you can defeat me?” Almost absentmindedly, the demon threw the angel aside. In a shower of broken stone and loose feathers Azrael smashed against the wall, crumbling to the ground.  
“The Seventh Seal is broken.” War snarled. “And even if you kill me, my siblings will come in retaliation. And no doubt the White City will soon realize that there are few demon-lords left that could overpower their greatest Mystic.” Wrath burned the air around him, fire flashing as the Red Rider was this close to turning into his Chaosform. “Can you truly stand against three Horsemen and the forces of Heaven, Samael?”  
“Heh.” The demon rose from his seat. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But I am not in the mood for fighting off armies. Though I admit it will be boring without him.”  
Taking the angel’s wings, he roughly threw him in front of War’s feet. Trembling on the rough stones, Azrael half-turned his face to the male standing beside him. The eyelid above his empty socket twitched, as if wishing to open.  
Returning Chaoseater to his back, War carefully lifted Azrael, cradling him against his armored chest.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
Samael watched as the Horseman walked out of his fortress. “One more thing.” He called when the Rider had summoned his steed to leave Hell.  
Instead of turning in the saddle, War turned Ruin to look at the red-skinned demon on the far end of the bridge. “What?”  
“Two things, actually.” Slowly, Samael walked out towards them, several lesser demons peeking at the scene playing out. “Firstly… about those ‘Earthly pursuits’? Dear Azrael… well, I guess you can imagine what happened to him.” He pointed at the bloodied legs of the securely held angel. “I must admit, I toyed with him a bit. Abaddon, Michael, Lucien, Death, You… He has plenty of people he shan’t trust anymore, I daresay.”  
“Get to the point.” War warned him, scowl darkening.  
“Of course.” The demon leaned lightly on the balustrade. “As I was saying… I took your form as well. It was the only time that our dear Angel of Death moaned in pleasure. I was wondering, that if you find out, will you tell me it was because I looked like you or because – as it was the last time I took him – he had come to enjoy being raped?”  
An almost feral growl tore itself free from the Nephilim’s throat. “You should be glad I have my hands full, demon.”  
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” The taller male chuckled.  
“And the second thing?” War briefly looked down to the trembling form he was holding.  
“I daresay Heaven does not like demonic things in their precious White City.” Reaching out, Samael’s hand glowed. “So I shall take my magics upon him…” His grin widened. “Give Michael my regards.”  
Every muscle in Azrael’s body tensed, War straining to keep the angel from falling down onto the ground. The sound of tearing flesh and breaking bone filled the ears of the Rider. For the first time since coming here, his eyes widened in horror at wounds appearing on the scholar’s body.  
“My magics, including my healing.” Samael added almost off-handedly as he disappeared in a torrent of fire and shadow as Azrael’s twitching body stopped moving in the Horseman’s arms. Blood dripped down onto rider and horse both, making red trails on them.


	11. Chapter 10

Cursing, War pierced the Veil between realms to head for Heaven. He only faintly felt the angel’s pulse and with every moment it grew weaker. He’d kill Samael for this… but first he needed to save the male in his arms.  
He appeared well outside the gates to the White City, not wanting to risk angels shooting him for appearing suddenly out of nowhere, something they would be more than likely to do if he appeared within the city-boundaries. Azrael would not survive getting hit by anything. He might not even survive the ride in his state…  
Jumping down from Ruin, he directed the flaming steed to run, hoping that at least one of his siblings had already come to inform Uriel of what they had found. He could not jostle the Archangel anymore than he already had.  
Sinking through his knees, he carefully laid the scholar down onto the ground. War watched the horse disappear in the golden gleam briefly before turning his attention to the scholar.  
“Azrael?” He whispered, faintly hoping that at least the other was still somewhat conscious. Roughly pulling his red hood free, he pressed the fabric against some of the worse wounds. He might as well have tried to repopulate Earth by himself for all the good it did.  
Blood kept pouring out, pooling on the ground and soaking the white wings. Were Azrael any lesser than what he was, he would have died from blood-loss by now.  
“Stay alive.” The Rider whispered, hoping that at least this time luck would be on his side.   
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
“Well, thank you regardless.” Michael softly told the three Horsemen in front of him. He had noticed what Uriel had done – hard to miss a suddenly missing General – and had come to the gate himself to await the Nephilim.  
They had found nothing, leaving only the youngest Rider as hope for Azrael. And said youngest Rider was apparently running late…  
“You ought to keep better track of your people.” Death informed him coldly, glowering at the Archon ruling Heaven from behind his mask. Despair flicked his head back and forth in agitation.  
“Is that not War’s steed?” Gabriel suddenly asked, pointing out onto the road leading away from the city. In the distance fire was rapidly approaching. Already the causeway was shaking, trembling under the hooves of the approaching horse.  
“But without War.” Strife peered into the distance as he was by far the best spotter the Horsemen had. “And he looks very agitated…” His voice trailed off in horror when he realized what that could only mean: something had happened to War.  
Not even waiting for anyone to say anything, Death wheeled Despair around, sending the green-glowing stallion in a mad dash towards the approaching rider-less horse. His siblings were close behind, Strife’s faster steed quickly pulling past the elder Nephilim’s.  
Ruin turned when they approached, racing headlong with them further from the White City.  
Briefly glancing over her shoulder, Fury could see that several of the angels were following them, Uriel in the lead, though they had trouble keeping up with the fast horses of the Four.  
“I see him!” Strife called, keen eyes having spotted their youngest sibling up ahead. Wings like no other in Creation gleamed in the golden light reflecting of the road. “He has Azrael!”  
Or rather, the youngest Horseman had a slab of meat that once had been Azrael…   
When they slowed their horses to a stand-still beside their sibling, it actually took them a few moments to truly register the state the angel was in. Never in their wildest dreams would they have expected the Gatekeeper to ever look like that.  
“Please tell me you brought a healer.” War greeted them, cradling the slowly dying scholar in his arms while still trying to keep him from bleeding to death. “He needs one.”  
“What happened!?” Death dismounted, falling to his knees beside the angel to look more closely at the wounds. Just about every one of his senses was screaming at him that the angel was on the doorstep of the Well of Souls. “He looks like he went through a shredder. Several times…”  
“Later.” War waved his eldest brother off as the other angels had reached them, crying out in worry and horror at the state their prime scholar was in.  
Recognition seemed to briefly flicker in Uriel’s gaze as she watched Gabriel rush forward to heal the scholar as much as she could until he could be delivered to the true healers. Jamaerah’s prophecy had come true. Sharply ordering several of the guards to fetch more healers and something to transport the long-winged male on, she then just floated beside the kneeling rulers of Heaven, for the first time in a long while unsure what she should do next.  
By the time she remembered to thank the Horsemen, they had been secure that the angels had everything under control and left Heaven once more.  
Shortly afterwards several mystics arrived, forming a circle around the three angels on the ground and teleporting them away.  
“Find someone to clean this up.” Uriel sharply gestured at the blood-pool on the ground.


	12. Chapter 11

It was several days later that Azrael woke, mostly healed from his wounds. A week after that, War appeared at the gates to the White City, requesting leave to visit the Archangel.  
The elder angel hardly moved, sitting on the lounge where his caretakers put him. He ate when food was placed in front of him, but it was automatic and one might as well have put gruel in front of him considering how much he seemed to care. Even when updating him about what had happened while he was gone seemed to get no reaction from him. Only when Uriel told him that War had survived everything did the Archangel give even the faintest hint of actually registering what she said.  
The healers had failed to save his eyesight on either eye, the lack of cooperation from the mystic’s innate magics foiling their attempts to do so.  
“Azrael?” It had taken him hours to convince the guards that all he wanted was to see how the Archangel was doing. In the end he had been forced to threaten to just hijack the angel again if they would not share him… so to speak.  
The blinded angel flinched at his voice. He was dressed in a simple robe, his wings folded at his back. A bandage covered his eyes, holding herbs to ease the pain. “What… are you doing here…?”  
“Visiting you.” War stated softly, closing the distance between them. “How do you feel?”  
Azrael did not answer, turning away. In fact, he got up for the first time in days, just to move away from the Horseman.  
“Azrael?” War followed, unhindered by the any blindness and reached for the slender male. When his hand – bigger than any angel’s – closed around the angel’s arm, the reaction was instantaneous and unexpected.  
In his surprise the Rider did not manage to block the first few punches, wincing lightly when they hit him. Not because they actually hurt, since even unharmed Azrael had never been a melee-fighter, but more because of how unexpected they were.  
“Damn you, damn you, damn you!” The mystic screamed in anger and just a tad of despair. “Why did you save me!? Why!? I thought my deeds would earn me some mercy, not more suffering! Is this because of that damned Endwar!? I regretted it! I told you I did! You ought to have let me die, you…”  
War winced again, eyes flying over to the door. If they heard…  
Grabbing the angel’s wrists, he forced him to the wall. He needed to calm the other down, but right now the scholar was too frantic to listen to anything he said.  
The screams were muffled when the Horseman’s hand clamped over the Archangel’s mouth as the armored golem-arm grabbed both wings and pushed the mystic against the wall with his side. Another muffled cry warned War that it had been the side with some broken ribs, apparently.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
Azrael froze when the Horseman’s bulk trapped him against the wall, his own arms stuck between their bodies and wings nearly crushed in the golem-hand’s grip. His mind flashed back to entirely too many instances he had been forced to endure in Samael’s keeping, including several with the Rider currently overpowering him so completely.  
He slumped, mind shutting down. He could not go through this again! Shivering, he waited for the touch in places he’d rather have untouched.   
“Are you listening?” War’s voice came from close, entirely too close.   
His whimper was muffled by the massive hand clamped over his mouth, but the Archangel nodded weakly. Anything to not have to go through that again!  
Slowly, the hand over his mouth let go.  
“Please…” A weak whisper was all that was left of the once so commanding voice that had raged not a couple moments ago. “Not… not again…”  
“I am not Samael.” War whispered back, carefully letting go of the graceful wings. “You need not fear me, Azrael. You were completely out of control, I had to stop you.” He added apologetically, giving the other some room.  
“Does it matter what I say?” The angel sank through his knees, wrapping his wings around himself. “I am lost anyway…”  
He did not see how the other male looked at that statement. “You intend to give up?” Soft clanking made it clear War had joined him on the ground.  
“If I am not killed by what… what…” Azrael shuddered, unable to even reference what had happened to him, tightening his hold on himself with another whimper. “I recall you saying that I’d be killed for what I did.”  
“I said the Charred Council would see justice done.” War specified, golem-hand briefly touching the white feathers. “They are gone and save for you, me and Ulthane, no one knows how deeply involved you were. To the White City, you are but a victim of Abaddon’s deeds.”  
Silence descended in the small room, Azrael’s face reflecting the shock he felt. “But…”  
“You repented.” The Rider pulled back his hand. “And even if not, this last year was plenty… punishment.”  
Azrael flinched, getting up again. He winced when he hit his leg against a low table meant to hold the supplies of the healers when they visited him. “Is that it? I repented by being… being used by a demon!? Is that the justice of the Horsemen!?”  
Before he could progress any further into another rant, pain shot through his face when the hot hand of the Rider was back, clutching his lower face to keep him from talking any more.  
Panicking, the angel fought against the hold, wings hitting and toppling several pieces of furniture.  
He faintly heard the door being flung open, before feeling something pull at his gut. It took the terrified mystic a few moments to recognize the feeling as the one he had whenever he had to travel between worlds: War was taking him away from the White City.


	13. Chapter 12

He managed to wrench himself free from the Rider's grip as they arrived where-ever the Nephilim had pulled them.  
Azrael fell to the ground in a heap, wincing when his weakened body met solid stone. “Where...?”  
He half-turned, trying to put distance between himself and the other male. There was a panicked expression on his face when he stumbled on what seemed to be a stone step.  
“Will you stop trying to hurt yourself!?” War caught him before he fell again, wrapping his arms around the angel.  
Said angel only increased his struggles, afraid of why the other had brought him here. “Why did you bring me here!? Let me go!”  
War actually strained to hold him, having to half-turn his head away to protect his eyes from getting clawed out. “Because you'd have alerted the entire White City at this rate. Now calm down.”  
“Are you insane!?” Azrael felt tears form in his remaining eye. He would not survive going through the hell of last year again. “Please...”  
“What the Hell makes you think I brought you here for that!?” War demanded, a trace of horror appearing in his voice as he let go of the angel again. “Azrael...”  
Azrael stumbled, collapsing on the stairwell and wrapped himself in his wings. He trembled, covering his face with his hands. “I... I can't...”  
He flinched at War's hand carefully touching him and had his eyes been visible, the Rider would have seen a haunted look in them. “War... please... Take me back.”  
“No.” The Rider pulled his hand back when the slender male reacted to that with faint panic. He tried to get away by climbing the stairs, only to lose his footing and fall onto a gnarled root.  
“Why...?” Slender hands trembled as they travelled over the ancient wood. “Eden? You brought me to Eden?”  
“I figured that would be the best place.” War answered.   
“Why?” In his stress, Azrael struggled to keep his mind closed from the Tree.   
“Because this is the one place no one can easily come.” War's voice was closer now. “We have privacy here.”  
The Archangel took a shuddering breath and in that moment the control of his mind was gone. The last thing he heard was a hiss of War before visions took him.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
When he came to, he was resting against something soft and warm. A hand was gently caressing his face.   
“Those must have been some visions...” War's voice sounded from above and it was then that Azrael realized that the other must be cradling him. “You were out for nearly an hour.” The Nephilim added as he carefully rested the angel back on the ground to move away.  
Only to stop when a hand closed around his wrist. “I saw you...” Azrael whispered. “On the bridge of Samael... He told you...”  
“Told me what?” War asked softly, hesitantly resting his hand on the slender hand of the angel.  
Azrael shuddered, forcing himself to remember. “That... that I enjoyed you...” He yanked his hand back, covering his face. “Creator... he told you...” The Gatekeeper whimpered, curling up again. “Heaven help me...”  
“He did.” War said after a short hesitation. “That is what the Tree showed you? The talk between me and Samael?”  
“All of it.” The Archangel answered in a whisper, grateful that this time the Horseman did not try to make contact with him. “From when you arrived at his fortress until Gabriel started healing me.”  
Silence descended upon the two then, the only sound the distant fall of water.


	14. Chapter 13

Azrael felt sick to the very depth of his being. It was already bad enough that War had found out about the angel’s attraction to him, but like this!? To have the Rider find out that any treatment would do if the person doing it was simply the youngest Nephilim was too much. The angel trembled on the ground, covering his face with his hands.  
“Azrael?” War’s voice came from a short distance away.  
“No.” The archangel curled up, wishing that somehow this would all end soon. “Please...”  
“Azrael.” War did not touch him again, but the voice got more insistent... and closer.  
“No...” The Gatekeeper flinched, covering himself with his wings. “Take me back, please. Please...”  
Another silence stretched between them, but suddenly War cradled the angel to his chest.  
“I will.” Azrael felt himself being lifted. “But we’ll have to talk about this one day.”   
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
A month later Azrael was deemed fully recovered and released from the healer’s control. Upon his request Michael and Gabriel gave him control of Lostlight. For now, he could not stand being in the White City.  
He was in the library, reading a random book he had pulled from the shelf when feeling someone penetrate the wards he and several other mystics had laid out over the outpost.  
Tensing, he moved from the alcove he had sequestered himself in and walked to a nearby window. His eyes – finally healed – were still easily strained, but he could make out War’s form approaching before he had to stop.  
“So he has come...” The Gatekeeper sighed in defeat as he made his way down to the ground level. This was certainly going to be bad.  
“You don’t fly anymore?” War greeted him when they finally met at the bottom of the library.   
“I...” Azrael briefly glanced at his wings, folded neatly at his back. “No... not unless I have to.” Though surprised, he was glad that the other did not immediately started talking about... it. “I... don’t feel comfortable with them anymore.” He started heading for one of the gardens of the installation.  
“Oh?” War followed, leaving a couple feet of space between them. “How come?”  
Azrael stopped, slumping lightly. “They...” He closed his eyes, gathering himself. “Samael liked them... He... He would...” He could not finish the sentence, covering his mouth with his hand when bile rose in his throat.  
War’s hand came to rest on his shoulder hesitantly. “I am sorry. Had I not made assumptions, I could have found you earlier and spared you much of your suffering.”  
They remained like that for a while, Azrael trembling and War desperately trying to offer some support and strength to the angel.  
“I...” Azrael choked softly, turning to the Red Rider beside him. “I was breaking, War...” He shuddered. “I was so close to just... giving in to him.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I...”  
War said nothing, unsure as to what could ease the angel’s pain.  
Ivory eyes filled with tears as sobs broke free from the angel’s control. Azrael flung himself at the Horseman, sobbing brokenly for the first time since having been freed. He buried his face in the red fabric of the other’s hood, clinging to the Nephilim as entirely too many emotions broke free from his hold.  
War’s powerful arms enclosed him, filling the Archangel with a sense of protection he had not felt in a great many years.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
When Jamaerah went in search of the Archangel several hours later, he found him still in the gardens. Sitting beside a newly build fountain, Azrael and War were talking softly. Despite sitting well apart from one another, War’s fingers lightly rested up those of the Gatekeeper.  
More importantly: for the first time since coming here Azrael seemed almost relaxed and happy as War spoke to him.  
He figured his business could wait.


	15. Epilogue

It was several months – and many meetings later – the relationship between War and Azrael started to develop beyond friendship. Despite having loved and desired the Horseman for a good while, Azrael could still not bear his touch easily.   
It was something he felt quite guilty over. Surely War would prefer a lover he could actually touch once in a while? But the Rider kept assuring him he’d wait however long it took. In the end, it took years.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
“Are you sure?” Gently caressing the soft cheek, War leaned over the angel. Both were naked, resting on the great bed in the private quarters of the scholar.  
“Yes.” Azrael reached for the hand caressing his face. “I am ready.” It was not the first time that they were naked together, or even that they touched one another in this state... it would be the first time War would take Azrael.   
Seeing the determination in the eyes of the angel, the Rider nodded and leaned down lightly to press a kiss upon the soft lips of the scholar. Upon Azrael’s insistence, they had left several candles burning in the closed-off room.  
The angel trembled in anticipation, hands caressing the bulking frame of the Nephilim above him. The first time he had seen the other naked, he had panicked to the extent of nearly fleeing the room. Samael had done a beyond-well job on impersonating the Horseman, setting back the Archangel’s mental recovery for months. During that time, War had spent nearly more time with the angel than with his own siblings, much to their consternation.  
The Rider’s breathing was laboured as he felt the soft hands trail over his body. It turned a different kind of laboured when he started kissing the Archangel’s chest: Samael had left his mark on the once unblemished skin. The healers had managed to remove the burn-mark on Azrael’s face, but his chest and limbs had been a different matter. Scars littered them, moreso even than on a seasoned warrior’s body.  
Beneath him, his lover tensed. Lingering at his chest always made Azrael remember the scars and the torment that had brought them. He’d have to make sure the angel would get no time to do that today...  
Moving up again, he claimed those soft lips, moaning lightly at his lover’s eager response. It seemed that Azrael had thought the same...  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
He struggled to contain his desires, desperately clinging to a remnant of control so that he kept moving slowly. He winced at the nails digging into his arms. “Are you sure you are okay?”  
Below the Red Rider, Azrael was tense, eyes pressed shut. Every time his lover filled him, a tremble ran through his body. And then there were those nails, almost drawing blood.  
“I am fine.” Azrael forced his hands to relax, looking up at the Nephilim.  
“You don’t feel like it...” War countered, making to pull out fully. “We should wait, you are obviously no...” He gasped in surprise when legs closed around his waist, pulling him back in. Freezing, he struggled against the wave of pleasure coursing through him.  
“No...” The angel reached up, wrapping arms and wings around the form above his. “Please... I want this... I want to be able to make love to you...” There were tears in his eyes as he buried his face into the crook of the rider’s neck.  
Sighing softly – and promptly regretting it since it filled his nose with the angel’s scent – War gently caressed the form beneath him. “I can wait, Azrael... I don’t want to hurt you.”  
“I am fine...” Azrael repeated himself. “It’s getting better, honestly... Please?” He would not let go of the Horseman, clinging to him with all his might.  
Unable to do anything else, said Horseman relented, starting to move again.  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\  
Moans filled the room, along with the creaking of the bed. Two entwined hands rested beside the two moving forms on the bed. One was slender flesh, the other solid metal.  
“War...” The scholar breathed heavily, hand trembling in the other’s hold.  
“Yes...” The warrior answered, lips trailing kisses over every bit of skin he could reach.


End file.
